Counting Freckles
by JennaSPN
Summary: Astrid focused determinedly on Hiccup's face while Gothi unwrapped the tourniquet, choosing to count his freckles instead of looking at his leg. Every time she caught sight of his incomplete limb, the lack of gangly calf she was accustomed to teasing, her heart would begin to race so quickly that she thought it might burst. So freckles were better. Freckles were familiar. HICCSTRID


A/N: Hi all! I know there are many stories out there about Hiccup's loss of leg, but this is the way I pictured things going down canonically. I took a shot at this earlier a couple months ago before I had established a clear voice / narrative that I wanted to tell, so this is me starting over, having (in my opinion) found that narrative voice and concept. Hope you enjoy and reviews make my day!

**CHAPTER 1**

Astrid focused determinedly on Hiccup's face while Gothi unwrapped the tourniquet, choosing to count his freckles instead of looking at his leg. Every time she caught sight of his incomplete limb, the lack of gangly calf she was accustomed to teasing, her heart would begin to race so quickly that she thought it might burst. So freckles were better. Freckles were familiar.

Moreover, in the few moments that Astrid did feel marginally composed and focused, the events from earlier that day would replay beneath her eyelids. The images were intrusive and unwelcome, and yet another reason that it was better to just count the spots that littered every inch of Hiccup's face.

"Seven, eight, nine—"

_Astrid was pushing her way through the crowd. It wasn't difficult. Everyone was rooted to the spot. Quiet, and still, in a way that Vikings never were. She had felt the heat of the explosion on her face, seen him fall into the flames, and then nothing. She had screamed his name, her vocal chords burning from the smoke, but the sound of her voice was drowned by the rest of the chaos. He couldn't be dead. He was Hiccup, and that was reason enough—she pushed on._

"Nine—" Astrid shook her head, reflexively, as though shaking the memory from her head like a dog might do to rid his ears of water, "nine—ten, eleven, twelve—"

_Astrid fumbled past Gobber, and came to a halt. She saw Stoick now, his head bowed, kneeling by Toothless who lay motionless on the ground. Bits of burnt ash fell down on them like snow. Her heart plummeted into her stomach, and her knees nearly buckled. Hiccup was gone. He was dead, and she'd never get to tell him—tell him that—_

"Thirteen," Astrid hissed forcefully, loudly enough that Gothi raised an eyebrow in her direction.

_Okay, something else then. Thor knows there's too many to count anyway._

Astrid resigned herself to just looking at him—all of him, apart from the leg, of course. She quickly realized however, that the small movements of his face sent her heart into a frenzy just as well. Astrid took deep and purposeful breaths in and out so as not to accidentally pass out and become a hinderance to Gothi instead of a help.

Though Hiccup was still decidedly unconscious, his face did not look peaceful. It look pained, and his eyebrows jerked as Gothi handled his leg. In a way, these little signs of life provided some momentary comfort until it didn't. Until the whiskey touched his serrated skin.

_Astrid could hardly believe it when Toothless stirred and retracted his wings to reveal a boy, stored gently beneath his paws. The shock of it hit her like a lightning bolt. Stoick was cradling Hiccup in his arms, listening for a heartbeat and then he'd bellowed. Hiccup was alive._

_It was as though a veil has been lifted from the onlookers. Astrid's eyes stung with relief as the other Vikings cheered and clapped each other's backs. But something was not quite right. Stoick's expression was still one of urgency._

_Stoick shifted Hiccup in his arms, and for the umpteenth time that day, Astrid felt like someone had hit her squarely in the chest. Hiccup's leg was gone. A fairly clean cut below the knee, and partially cauterized by the flames. But there was still blood. A steady flow of it that spread into the fabric of his trousers. Gobber was already working away, wrapping Hiccup's leg with bits of cloth to fashion a makeshift tourniquet._

_"Astrid—" said Stoick—no—pleaded Stoick, "I need you to fly him to Berk. He needs Gothi. He needs her now or he'll bleed out on the ships._

The whisky was meant to disinfect. And it probably was, but Astrid wasn't thinking about that when Hiccup started writhing. For a fraction of a second, his eyes snapped open, green looking right into Astrid's blue, before squeezing shut again, his face contorted in pain.

His back arched against the bed and he tried to struggle beneath Astrid who was doing her best to restrain him before he rolled off the bed altogether.

"Hiccup, HICCUP! Please—stay still!" she managed, holding him firmly by the shoulders.

He stopped fighting at the sound of her voice and blinked dazedly up at her, his eyes clouded and unfocused. "Astrid?" He blinked and tears streamed down his face, mixing with the blood and dirt that was already there. "What's—" His words were cut off by what appeared to be another intense wave of pain as Gothi continued to disinfect his wound. He groaned and struggled underneath Astrid's palms, his own fists clenching desperately against the edges of the bed.

"Yes, it's me Hiccup," said Astrid, hoping to Thor that if she kept talking it might distract him some, "I know it—it hurts, but this'll be the worst of it. I promise. Just try to breathe through it okay? I'm right here."

Hiccup took a deep shuddering breath in response, and Astrid stroked his hair, sensing that she no longer had to restrain him.

"My leg," he croaked.

"Gothi's going to fix up your leg, and you'll be just fine. Same scrawny Viking wreaking havoc wherever you go."

He was silent for a moment, and then, "Toothless? Dad?"

"They're both fine. Everyone's fine. Better than fine. You saved everyone."

Her voice caught in her throat and she hoped that he could sense her gratitude despite the state he was in. Her gratitude along with her pride, her remorse, her own self-reproach. Astrid had always been good at handling her feelings, one at a time. She could compartmentalize, and rationalize, and most of all she could focus no matter what. But this—this was overwhelming. Everything had changed—everything, because of Hiccup, and he likely didn't know it yet.

"Everyone's fine," he repeated quietly, as though to himself. She could feel some of the tension leave his body.

She watched him breathe deeply, his eyes closed and his face sweaty. He was a mess of blood and bruises and dirt, and his tears had left thin streaks down the sides of his face.

Despite all of this, Astrid leaned down and kissed his forehead because his care for everyone's safety was so disarming and just _so Hiccup_ that she couldn't help herself.

"Did you just?" he whispered.

"Maybe."

"Pain's made me delirious," he mumbled.

"Not delirium," she reassured.

"Well thank you then—m'lady," he managed, trailing off, the smallest hint of a smile playing on his lips before slipping back into unconsciousness.

Eyes burning, Astrid blinked rapidly and allowed a few of her own tears to fall into Hiccup's hair. She was grateful that he'd fallen unconscious before Gothi has started cutting away at pieces of burnt skin. The adrenaline from his wakefulness had left her body shaking, and she needed to get out of the house for a moment. She needed her axe and something good to throw it at—repeatedly. And maybe to scream. Or else she might cry. And she wasn't having that. She was done being weak.


End file.
